Chapter 88: Zhao Sishen

After Yuanhui escaped from Hengyang, he abandoned his companions in his desperate flight. Unable to find a foothold in the martial world, and fearful that Zhu Shitian’s entanglements with imperial secrets would bring disaster upon himself, he changed into plain robes and wandered the jianghu in destitution. During his wandering, he happened to save a young man whose background was anything but ordinary, with ties deep within the imperial harem. The young man informed him that Empress Wei was gathering talented and extraordinary individuals, cultivating loyal followers, and suggested their fortunes might change if they sought her out. Together, they journeyed to Chang’an. After many twists and turns, they finally met Empress Wei. Yuanhui demonstrated his martial prowess and, with a touch of mystique, read her fortune and aura, astonishing her. She immediately entrusted him with an important position.

This time, though Zhao Sishen was named as the official in charge of guarding Li Chongjun, Empress Wei could not fully trust him and thus dispatched Yuanhui and the young man to assist, which is how Yuanhui came to be at the Jialan Monastery.

Upon hearing this, Yuanhui was filled with humiliation and rage. Without a word, he swung his monk’s staff in a wide arc, aiming to strike Lin Qingli’s head. Lin Qingli giggled, her sword flashing to rest atop the head of the staff. Using the “Adhesion” technique, she drew the staff left, then right. Yuanhui felt the staff twist forcefully in his grip, nearly torn from his hands—he was shocked. That once inexperienced Lin Qingli, who knew only rudimentary skills less than two years ago, now surpassed him in martial arts.

He dared not take her lightly and drew upon all his strength, wielding the staff until it formed an impenetrable barrier. This was the famed Thirty-Six Demon-Subduing Staff Techniques of the Monastery of Demon-Quelling. When unleashed, the staffwork was wild and bloodthirsty, so fierce it was forbidden to spar with fellow monks for fear of accidental death; it could only be practiced alone. Since barely escaping death beneath the Ghost Sword Han Qinghua, Yuanhui had secluded himself to train, and his skills had improved since that day.

He swept forward with the demon-subduing staff, striking down any foe in his path, mortal or divine. Lin Qingli, seeing his ferocity, did not dare meet force with force. Instead, she displayed the Beidou Illusory Moon technique, skillfully evading and countering. Li Chongyuan had once believed her internal energy was insufficient for its subtleties, so he had only taught her half the footwork. Now, with her sudden progress, she executed the Beidou Illusory Moon with the bearing of a true master. Yuanhui saw her image everywhere around him, growing ever more fearful, desperately swinging his staff to defend himself.

But this was exactly what Lin Qingli had hoped for. For all its power, the demon-subduing staffwork consumed a vast amount of inner strength. By the third cycle, Yuanhui’s energy was drained, his movements slowing, and his vital points laid bare. Lin Qingli, seeing her chance, let out a cry and lunged, sword aimed straight at his heart.

But Yuanhui, cunning and treacherous, had deliberately left an opening to lure her in. He raised his staff high and brought it down with all his might. Lin Qingli raised her sword, its blade resting on the long shaft of the staff. Yuanhui sneered—this move contained the force of a thousand pounds; how could a mere sword withstand it? “I’ll smash this girl and her sword to dust!” He pressed down with even greater force.

Suddenly, with a metallic clatter, Lin Qingli’s sword broke into a dozen segments. Yet the pieces did not fall away—linked by resilient black-steel wire, they coiled around Yuanhui’s neck like a whip. Startled, Yuanhui dropped his head and rolled across the ground, tumbling several yards like a gourd to escape. His staff flew from his grasp, crashing onto a monk’s quarters and bringing down the roof.

He had no idea that Lin Qingli’s sword was ingeniously constructed, with a dozen hidden catches along the blade. At the press of a trigger, the sword would break into segments, each linked by steel wire, transforming it into a soft whip. The pieces could be reassembled instantly by aligning the catches.

Yuanhui, rising to his feet, was pale with shock and fury. “You witch! How dare you use such strange tricks to ambush a holy monk!”

Lin Qingli laughed, “Weren’t you just now trying to ambush my elder brother?” With that, she restored her sword, sheathed it, and clapped her hands. “Come now, let’s see how your fists and feet fare!”

Since secretly training in the Muscle-Tendon Classic, she had never fought with all her might, unsure of her true strength. Now, facing Yuanhui, she was eager to test herself.

Yuanhui, meanwhile, thought, “I was fooled by her tricks with weapons before. Now it’s bare-handed combat—real skill, no tricks. What can a mere girl do?” He tore off his monk’s robe, baring his sinewy, monstrous muscles, and launched a “Vajra Pestle” punch, his fist the size of a bowl aimed straight at her.

Lin Qingli caught his elbow in a reverse grip, dragged it aside, and Yuanhui staggered several steps, nearly falling. Hastily, he steadied himself and turned to fight again.

Amid the chaos, Li Chongyuan leapt into the prison cell, helping the fallen man to his feet. It was indeed Li Chongjun, though days of torment and abuse had left him a shadow of his former self.

Li Chongjun shook his head with a bitter smile. “I am already a ruined man. Why trouble yourself to save me? Go, quickly! You are no match for Zhao Sishen. Don’t throw your life away!”

Li Chongyuan replied, “Elder brother, don’t speak. We’re leaving now!” He hoisted Li Chongjun onto his back, preparing to escape, when a cold, sinister voice echoed, “Do you think the Jialan Monastery is a place you can come and go as you please?”

With the words, a sword thrust silently toward him. So quiet and seamless was the attack, it seemed as if the blade had always been there, as if Li Chongyuan had walked into it himself. Knowing he faced a formidable foe, he countered with the “Seeking Plum Blossoms on Snow” move.

Suddenly, his opponent vanished. In that moment of confusion, intuition made him duck—the sword swept just above his brow, slicing off several strands of hair. The man’s speed was unbelievable.

Li Chongyuan realized at once and shouted, “You’re the one who ambushed us in the woods near Zhuma Town, aren’t you?”

The man sneered, “Indeed. That time, I was careless, and you lasted until Zi Wuzhuo arrived to save you. But this time, luck won’t favor you. Surrender and die!”

On his shoulder, Li Chongjun whispered, “Chongyuan, this is Zhao Sishen—the top expert of the Imperial Guards. Be careful!”

After that battle, Li Chongyuan had reflected many times. Gradually, he realized that while Zhao Sishen’s swordplay was not unique, combined with the footwork derived from arcane arts, it became unpredictable. Seeing that the cell was small, he determined that Zhao Sishen’s strange steps could not be fully used here. If he guarded himself and Li Chongjun closely, Zhao Sishen would have no opening.

But just then, the sounds of battle outside abruptly ceased. The time for burning an incense stick had passed, and the black-clad men had withdrawn. Li Chongyuan realized that a stalemate would be fatal. If they waited for reinforcements, not only would the rescue fail, but he himself would be trapped.

Meanwhile, Zhao Sishen lay in wait, launching occasional surprise attacks. Remembering that his master, Zi Wuzhuo, had once said this footwork allowed one to step just beyond the observer’s sight, leaving the foe defenseless, Li Chongyuan closed his eyes and relied solely on his hearing to detect attacks, countering only when he heard the sword cutting the air. Fearing for the wounded Li Chongjun behind him, he dared not be too aggressive and gradually fell into a defensive posture.

Zhao Sishen, too, was frustrated. His sword’s true brilliance lay in his footwork, but in such cramped quarters, he could do little more than strike suddenly and retreat, hoping for reinforcements from the front courtyard.

As the stalemate dragged on, Lan Wutong, having dealt with the armored soldiers, rushed to help. She called out, “Brother Chongyuan, hold your breath and rush out!” She tossed three pills into the cell, which exploded upon landing, filling the room with an uncanny green smoke, heavy with a strange fragrance that made one dizzy.

Li Chongyuan held his breath, carrying Li Chongjun out from the smoke. Lan Wutong quickly gave them each an antidote. Zhao Sishen, fearful of poison, dared not pursue, instead using his palms to disperse the smoke.

While they faced off in the cell, the contest between Lin Qingli and Yuanhui neared its end. Yuanhui believed that women were generally weaker and would surely lose in a contest of palms, but the moment their hands touched, he felt a force as swift as lightning and as mighty as a collapsing mountain. The sheer power forced him back several steps, his face turning pale as he muttered, “What a strange force! This is no skill from the Kongtong Sect.”

Lin Qingli inwardly reproached herself for revealing her abilities, but with things as they were, she had no choice but to continue. A killing intent arose in her heart as she pressed her attack, each palm strike aimed at Yuanhui’s vital points.

Yuanhui, never known for his boxing skills, hoped to overcome her with pure internal strength, but to his shock, hers was even greater. Within a few moves, he was hard-pressed on all sides.

Barely holding on, a sudden realization struck him—he recalled where he had felt this strange power before. In his youth, he had sojourned at Shaolin, discussing martial arts with the grandmasters of the Damo Hall, who had once demonstrated the prowess of the Muscle-Tendon Classic. He cried out, “This is the Muscle-Tendon Classic! So you’re the one who stole the scripture!”

He had heard rumors that Shaolin’s prized Muscle-Tendon Classic was stolen by a masked thief. Seeing her wield this skill, he was certain Lin Qingli was the thief. Knowing these words must never spread, lest endless trouble follow, Lin Qingli struck with both palms, channeling all her strength. Her palms landed squarely on Yuanhui’s chest, sending him crashing into the courtyard wall. He vomited blood in torrents—he would not survive.

Just as Lin Qingli struck Yuanhui down, Li Chongyuan emerged from the cell, bearing another person. The three reunited and fled southward, Lin Qingli noticing two stone Buddhas nearby. With a kick from each foot, she sent both statues—each weighing over a thousand catties—flying into the cell as if they were rag dolls. Li Chongyuan was stunned at her strength.

Upon leaving, he vaguely recalled Yuanhui’s cry of “Muscle-Tendon Classic.” Could it be that the scripture had been tampered with that day, and that Lin Qingli had secretly possessed it all along? But with danger pressing, there was no time to ponder further.

As Zhao Sishen prepared to give chase, two massive dark objects flew at him. He ducked back inside, blocked for a moment, and by the time he emerged, Li Chongyuan and his companions had escaped. As they passed through the front courtyard, the black-clad men were gone, and the remaining soldiers were scrambling to the rear—clearly for reinforcements. The fugitives counted themselves lucky.

They hurried to the southern edge of the Jialan Monastery, where, as expected, four fine horses were tethered in a hollow. They made for them at once. Unfortunately, Li Chongjun’s sinews had been severed in both hands and feet; he was limp and powerless, unable to ride. Li Chongyuan had to bind him tightly to his back with silk cords, leap onto a steed, and spur it away. Lin Qingli and Lan Wutong followed close behind.

(To be continued.)